The Smythe Chronicles
by shandiss
Summary: Ranger has an unusual encounter at the bonds office. An occasional series from a 2009 Perfectly Plum challenge. Rated M for mature content. Completely Babe. Warning for really offbeat humor.
1. Chapter 1

The Smythe Chronicles Part One

_A/N: Many thanks to everyone who has read my stories. Your warm welcome to the wide world of fanfiction has been truly overwhelming. I only hope that the stories bring you as much enjoyment in the reading as they have brought me in the writing. Thank you!--Shandiss_

_The characters belong to Janet Evanovich__, not me. (ALL of them. Every single one that shows up in this story.) Rated M for mature content and some innuendo as well as a high eeeuuww factor. Please remove all liquids from the immediate vicinity for safety's sake. __ Completely Babe. This is an occasional series that started as part of the 2009 Perfectly Plum Lent challenge and is added to as the muse dictates. Concept/phrasing/spelling and language errors are all my fault. Any resemblance to people living or dead is completely unintentional. _

Traffic was lighter than usual as Ranger parked the Cayenne in front of the bonds office. He was running late this morning. A high bond skip had decided to lead them on a serious chase through the underbelly of Trenton the night before, and Ranger had been up all night dealing with the aftermath.

As he slid out of the Porsche, he noticed the bumper of Big Blue peeking around the corner of the alley. He allowed himself a tiny glimmer of pleasure that Steph was still around. She never failed to brighten his day, and after last night he was very much in need of it.

The door yielded easily to his hand and he walked in, his usual quirk-of-the-lips-that-passed-as-a-grin ready. It wilted two steps over the threshold as the dead silence of the three women inside registered. "What—"

"SSHHH." Connie and Lula both shushed him as they leaned towards Vinnie's closed door. Steph was sitting on the couch, frozen in place, her hands gripping the files in her lap as if they were her last lifeline.

"You gave WHAT up for Lent?" Vinnie's anguished voice penetrated the thin walls easily. A light tenor voice with a cultured British accent answered him. The words were unintelligible, but the rhythm was precise and even.

Vinnie didn't bother to lower his voice. "But you CAN'T. We had an AGREEMENT!"

The door opened suddenly. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Plum. But Lent is a journey of self-reflection as well as self-denial. It's quite likely that I will make the termination of our arrangement . . . permanent."

Ranger tried to lean a little to his left to get a better look at the speaker. The doorway remained stubbornly empty, and he was trying to remember if Vinnie ever mentioned doing business with—

The mallard duck marched into the middle of the room. He shook his tail feathers, then nodded to Connie and Lula. "Ladies." Producing a perfectly-sized fedora from under his wing, he jammed it on his head and turned towards the door.

Abruptly he stopped, and Ranger found himself the uncomfortable recipient of an avian stare. The duck crossed the floor and stopped in front of him. "Are you Ranger Manoso, by chance?"

There wasn't a blank face in the world that covered this situation. "Yes. Who wants to know?"

The mallard extracted a tiny white card from under the other wing and held it up. "Cadwallader Smythe IV of the Sucker Point Smythes. I'm currently looking for a new security company for the family summer home. Call my personal assistant at the number on my card and he will set up an interview."

"I'll need specifications," said Ranger automatically. Gingerly, he took the card between his thumb and forefinger, and tried to get his brain to work. Fortunately, his mouth seemed to be capable of carrying on the conversation. "And price range."

"My assistant will have those for you." The mallard tipped his hat. "Sir." He turned to Steph. "Miss. Good day to you."

The door opened and Tank appeared. "Ranger, we—"

"I beg your pardon, good man." Cadwallader Smythe stopped in front of Tank and stared up at him with unblinking eyes. Tank gave the look right back to the mallard, then graciously stepped to one side.

"My apologies," he said, holding the door open. The duck tipped his hat, and marched out of the office.

Five sets of human eyes watched as the tail feathers gave a last shake before disappearing from view around the corner. Tank shook his head. "Only you, Boss."

"_Boss?"_

Ranger blinked, then squinted at the white ceiling. He looked around and found himself sprawled on the leather couch in his office. Sunlight streamed through the windows behind his desk and Tank stood in the doorway. "Boss, you ready to go? I thought I'd drive over to the bonds office with you. I have to explain to Lula what kept me out all night."

"I haven't been to the bonds office yet?" asked Ranger. He rolled to a sitting position and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep.

Tank frowned. "No, we just got in 20 minutes ago from the police station. You came in here to check your messages and must have fallen asleep."

"Yeah, I must have." He climbed to his feet and took a deep breath. "Let's go. I want to catch Steph before she leaves and ask her to lunch."

"Uh, you have a lunch date already." Tank looked apologetic. "A call came in while we were out and you're booked to meet with some guy from old money. Wants us to set up security for his summer home by Sucker Point."

"Cadwallader Smythe?" asked Ranger. He felt lightheaded, and visions of mallards with little fedoras danced in his brain.

Tank shook his head. "No, Bancroft Smythe." His second-in-command started walking out the door. "He's the personal assistant to Cadwallader Smythe."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Smythe Chronicles Part Two**

_The characters belong to Janet Evanovich__, not me. Rated M for mature content and some innuendo as well as a high eeeuuww factor. Please remove all liquids from the immediate vicinity for safety's sake. __ Completely Babe. This is an occasional series that started as part of the 2009 Perfectly Plum Lent challenge and is added to as the muse dictates. Any resemblance to people living or dead is completely unintentional. Concept/phrasing/spelling and language errors are all mine. __Everything else is _**so **_Bancroft's fault._

Ranger tossed his gun belt onto the nearest chair in his office and dropped into the leather executive chair behind the desk. The visit to the bonds office had been quick and completely uneventful, something that he was grateful for after the weirdness of his dream. He gave his head a little shake to clear out the last of the cobwebs. _Talking ducks with fedoras_, he thought with a chuckle as he powered up his laptop. _I think it's time for a vacation._

But first he had the schematics for the Hillard estate to finish. The client wanted the Gold Package with a few interesting extras, and Ranger needed to diagram the flow so Hector could get to work on the electronics. Within minutes, Ranger had the laptop shoved to one side and the rest of the desk's surface covered with graph paper and notes.

Elbow deep in the problem, Ranger lost track of time. His phone intercom beeped at him and he hit the Voice button with the end of his pencil. "Yo."

Tank's voice barreled through the tiny speaker. "Your lunch appointment is here. You want to handle it in your office?"

"Yeah, show him in here first. Alert Ella that we'll have the meal in Conference One." Ranger frowned at a sight line and erased it. He punched the Release and turned his attention back to the plans. The topographical survey wasn't accommodating the design. If the ground would flatten out a couple of degrees, then maybe they could—

"Ahem."

Ranger dropped the sheet of elevation tables on the desk and looked to the door. "I'm sorry, Mr. Smythe. I completely lost—"

The door was empty. Ranger half-stood, leaning on the desk, but the door was empty from top to bottom. Bottom to top. Nothing.

"_Ahem_."

He glanced down and noticed a lump under the papers he'd just dropped. He moved them, wondering what on his desk would—

A brown toad stared up at him. He sat squarely in the middle of the Hillard mansion, a miniature bowler hat perched between his eye crests. He balanced on his hind end and stuck out a tiny forearm. "Bancroft Smythe of the Sucker Point Smythes. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

_Oh dear God, no. Not again._ Ranger sat down with a thump and tried to drag air into his lungs. He stared at the toad and wondered if anyone would blame him for passing out.

The toad frowned and removed his hat. He set it next to a tiny briefcase and shook his head. "Do you have any spirits handy? You look like you could use a drop of restorative liquor."

"Scotch," said Ranger, his voice wheezing with the effort. He glanced from the toad to the side table where the crystal decanter set resided, then tottered upright. His mind still wasn't working but he was able to take out two glasses by rote and pour generous portions of the red gold liquid into both. After a moment's hesitation, he carried the decanter and one glass to the desk and placed them beside the toad. Then he grabbed his own glass and downed half the contents before resuming his seat.

As Ranger situated himself, he took a calming breath and felt the shock drain out of him as he released it. Imperturbable, he turned his attention back to the prospective client . . . who was submerged in the whiskey glass like a paperweight.

"Uh," Ranger said, then stopped. The military didn't cover etiquette in amphibian training; the closest he'd ever gotten to a toad during survival school didn't involve any skills that would close this deal successfully.

Bancroft opened one eye and popped his head above the whiskey. "Excellent vintage of Old Pulteney. I must say the hint of salt and the dry finish remind me of the beaches in Scotland during the spring. Capital, capital!"

"Uh, thanks." He opened his mouth, closed it, then drank the rest of his whiskey in one gulp before trying again. "Um, what can RangeMan Security do for you, Mr. Smythe?"

The toad heaved a sigh and reached over the edge of the glass for his briefcase. He balanced it on the rim and popped the latches. "My employer Cadwallader Smythe wishes to upgrade his security system. To that end, he has charged me with vetting your company for suitability and compatibility." He extracted a sheaf of papers the size of postage stamps and offered them to Ranger. As Ranger leaned forward to take them, Bancroft frowned. "Discretion is of the utmost importance. I cannot _stress_ the value the family places on their privacy."

"I can assure you that RangeMan takes confidentiality very seriously." Ranger took the papers and was dismayed to see the surface covered with spider web writing. If nothing else, this would put his language experts to the test. They'd need a high-powered microscope to read the damn thing. "Your client's privacy is safe with us."

"Good, good." Bancroft flopped back into the whiskey and took a deep breath. "Aah. Really, I must know who your agent is. This is truly a masterful vintage."

"Of course. I'll include the information with the quote." Ranger gave up trying to read the papers and set them to one side. "If I may ask, I noticed that you are a . . . ah . . ."

"Toad. _Bufo fowleri_, if you're keeping track. Demmed way to assign a man's place in the world if you ask me, but there you are. The result of the Age of Reason, and no going back." Bancroft slumped in the whiskey, depressed.

Ranger poured himself another glass. "And Mr. Cadwallader Smythe is, um, a . . ."

"A mallard." Bancroft rolled his eyes and sat up. "For the record, I'm related to Mr. Smythe by marriage. A bit of a scandal when it happened, but Mr. Smythe has been good enough to overlook the drawbacks when he offered me the job. I've always been a bit of an adventurer, you know. I've been to five continents while in Mr. Smythe's employ, and haven't regretted a single day."

"That's good to know," Ranger said. He tapped the papers. "I'll have my staff take a look at your requirements and put together a proposal. Would a week be acceptable?"

Bancroft climbed out of the whiskey, the liquid now nothing more than a film on the bottom of the glass. His brown skin glistened a little more than it had at first, but otherwise there was no sign that he had been sitting in any type of liquid. "Excellent, Mr. Manoso. I can't tell you how nice it is to work with civilized people. The last company . . ." He shuddered delicately. "Barbarians, the lot of them. Wouldn't know good Scotch from bad moonshine."

"Here at RangeMan Security, we pride ourselves on understanding our clients' needs." Ranger looked at his empty glass and the decanter, then regretfully decided he couldn't afford another shot. Any more liquid fortification and Tank would be pouring him into bed before mid afternoon. An evil thought crossed his mind and Ranger hit his intercom button. "Tank, my office, now." He released the button and smiled at Bancroft. "Mr. Smythe, I'd like to introduce my second in command. If I'm unavailable, he will be more than happy to deal with your concerns."

Bancroft beamed at him. "Excellent! I trust your staff is of the highest professional—" He broke off as Tank appeared in the office doorway. There was a long pregnant moment of silence, then Bancroft did the completely unexpected: he shrieked and fell over.

As the toad flopped face down on the Hillard estate plans, Ranger jumped to his feet and swore in four different languages. He cleared the desk of decanter and glass, sweeping the papers onto the floor with one pass. Bancroft didn't move, and Ranger gingerly prodded his side with a forefinger. "Mr. Smythe?"

No response. It was like poking a loaf of bread. A whiskey-soaked, wart-covered loaf of bread. "Smythe?"

Tank bent over the desk and peered at the inert amphibian. "What's going on, Boss? Didn't anyone ever tell you that frogs are best with a flirty Cabernet?"

"Shut up," snapped Ranger. "He's a client, not lunch."

"Right, Boss. Whatever you say." Tank took a step back and gave Ranger an assessing look.

Ranger ignored him and rolled Bancroft onto his back. The toad flopped over, completely boneless. Ranger couldn't even tell if he was breathing. "What's the respiration rate for a toad? Maybe he needs rescue breathing."

Tank's one step backwards became two. "I'm not giving a frog mouth to mouth."

"He's a toad."

"Toad, frog, whatever. Not happening." Tank backed up his assertion with a steely glare. Ranger had one of his own to match it.

"This is a client, Tank. I'm not letting him croak on my desk."

"Fine." Tank gritted his teeth and backed up so he could see down the hallway. "_Santos! Get your ass in here!_"

In spite of the dire situation, Ranger struggled to keep his composure as Lester skidded around the corner.

"What's the emergency?"

Tank nodded towards the desk. "Client needs mouth to mouth. You just volunteered."

Anticipation changed to confusion that slid rapidly downhill to outrage. "That's a frog. The only way a frog is hitting these lips is in the company of a Zinfandel." Lester crossed his arms and divided his glare between Tank and Ranger. "Not happening."

"That's an order, Santos," Tank said. "Rescue breathing, _now_."

Lester held out for three more seconds, then his shoulders drooped in resignation. "Fine. What's wrong with it anyways?"

"I'm playing dead, you big oaf," murmured Bancroft. He opened an eye and stared at Tank. "Are you going to eat me?"

"Have you been soaking in that whiskey?" countered Tank.

"Yes."

He shook his head. "Not with a ten foot pole and a bucket of ketchup. A man's got to draw the line somewhere."

"Oh, good." Bancroft sat up and brushed himself off. "I always appreciate a man of principals. Even if he's completely wrong about his choice of spirits."

"Like hell," Tank said. "My mama knew how to—"

"Tank, not now," snapped Ranger. He caught his second-in-command's eyes and gave him a meaningful look. Comprehension dawned slowly; Ranger was pretty sure he'd seen paint dry faster. Tank coughed and backpedaled as best he could. "What I meant to say was that my mama taught me everything I know about food and beverages."

Bancroft nodded and set his bowler on top his head. "Well, far be it from me to correct a woman of genteel breeding. Perhaps I should assign it to different upbringings and leave the matter to rest."

"Pierre is from Louisiana," Ranger said. "His family is very big on tradition."

"Indeed." Bancroft paused and looked Tank up and down. It wasn't a comfortable study; Tank shifted his feet as Lester smirked in the corner. Now that he was safe from needing to resuscitate a toad, he was enjoying the interplay immensely. "I've never had occasion to visit the Deep South. From which part of the fair state of Louisiana are you?"

Ranger watched as the toad hopped off his desk and up to Tank. Bancroft wasn't the least bit nervous, even with the size differential. Ranger, on the other hand, was nervous enough for the both of them. Visions of having to fill out police reports swam through his brain. "Tank . . ."

"I got it, Boss." Tank bent down with an outstretched hand. "Mr. Smythe, may I escort you to your car?"

Bancroft hopped up as he clutched his bowler in one hand and the briefcase in the other. "That would be most kind, Mr. Pierre. Perhaps we can discuss the crowning achievements of Southern womanhood and their invaluable contributions to our national heritage."

"I'm more than agreeable," Tank said. As he disappeared out the door, Ranger could hear his deep voice rumbling counterpoint to Bancroft's lighter tone. It was a strange sound, one that he never thought he would hear in these corridors.

Lester laughed quietly. "If you could see the look on your face, Ranger. It's utterly priceless, Boss."

"_Boss?"_

Ranger's head dropped suddenly and he jerked upright, blinking as he took in his office and Lester hovering in the doorway. "What?"

"Your lunch appointment canceled," said Lester. He shook his head. "Good thing, too. You look dead on your feet. Go upstairs and catch some Zs."

Ranger looked around and noticed that he was sitting at his desk, the Hillard plans in front of him. He'd obviously dozed off while working on them.

He rubbed his eyes and indulged in a yawn. "Yeah, I think I will go upstairs. Did the lunch appointment reschedule?"

"Yeah, wants to do an onsite evaluation." Lester hesitated. "Weird conversation, really. He kept asking if you had the name of a good Old Pulteney agent. Said he wanted to upgrade his stock."

Ranger stopped dead, then reached for the decanter on his desk. He didn't bother with the glass. "Lester, tell Louis to break open another case of my private reserve. I'm going to need more Scotch."


End file.
